


Family for Feuilly

by letosatie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childbirth, FTM Grantaire, Feuilly Week, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Pregnancy, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: Grantaire got to Feuilly’s in time to observe Joly sitting Feuilly down for The Talk.Joly said, “You may notice your penis getting hard and stiff sometimes.”“I’m four years older than you,” complained Feuilly.Joly ignored him.  “There is no need to be embarrassed.  This is perfectly natural.  Now, I’ve made a diorama to demonstrate what happens when the erect penis releases white sticky stuff that we, in the medical profession, call semen.”“That’s a great diorama,” said Jehan.  Joly and Bossuet decide Feuilly has missed out on 30 years of Dad Jokes and attempt to fulfil the role of Feuilly's dad.  The other Amis adopt the various remaining family roles.  Meanwhile, Grantaire volunteers his uterus so Feuilly can have the baby he desperately wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**October:**

It started with Joly and Bossuet, which, Grantaire would admit, most of the most madcap things Les Amis got up to started with Joly and Bossuet. They were accelerated by Bahorel or Enjolras, but they were started by Joly and Bossuet.

This started with Joly and Bossuet claiming that Feuilly needed decades worth of Dad jokes, that the major tragedy of orphan hood was the lack thereof and that they, Joly and Bossuet, would willingly and committedly fill that gap for their beloved mate Feuilly.

So it was absolutely Joly and Bossuet’s fault that Grantaire was sitting in a creaky chair feeling dysphoric and anxious and being told by his doctor, “Congratulations, you are definitely pregnant!”

She touched his hand. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I… Yeah,” said Grantaire. Everything was so much, too much, right now. “Yeah,” said Grantaire again. And he started laughing. 

“I’m glad you’re pleased. I didn’t want to assume,” Dr Hucheloup said. 

“Well actually,” said Grantaire, his smile slipping, “I’m having this baby for my friend and I’m wondering if you can advise me of a gynaecologist who will be willing to relate to me both as a man and not as the parent of this baby?”

Dr Hucheloup nodded. “Actually yes. I have the perfect gent.” She rummaged in a file drawer and handed Grantaire a card. It was plain unbleached brown and said simply Dr Myriel, Gynaecologist, and listed an address in Paris and a phone number. “He’s amazing. Love on legs basically. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” said Grantaire.

“Will you be okay getting yourself home?” The doctor asked.

Grantaire thought of all the times he had found his way home drunk and without any memory of the journey. “Yes,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got GPS in my brain, don’t worry.”

“Okay. Congratulations, R.”

Grantaire got to Feuilly’s in time to observe Joly sitting Feuilly down for The Talk. Jehan sat cross-legged on the floor, seemingly very interested. Feuilly got up and tried to leave, but Joly had back up, and really, who would challenge Musichetta? 

Joly said, “You may notice your penis getting hard and stiff sometimes.”

“I’m four years older than you,” complained Feuilly.

Joly ignored him. “There is no need to be embarrassed. This is perfectly natural. Now, I’ve made a diorama to demonstrate what happens when the erect penis releases white sticky stuff that we, in the medical profession, call semen.”

“That’s a great diorama,” said Jehan. 

“Thank you, Jehan,” said Joly. “you are my favourite of the hussies my wayward son has brought home.”

“Rude,” said Jehan, “Feuilly is not wayward.”

“Now Bossuet and Musichetta will act out positions which you can use to have intercourse with another person,” Joly continued.

“Oh my god,” said Feuilly, “oh my god.”

“She’s very flexible,” said Grantaire.

“What about the one…” contributed Jehan, “wait, I’ll show you.” 

He shifted Bossuet into position and Musichetta said, “Oh yeah,” before joining in.

Jehan stepped back and observed the position with his head tipped all the way over one shoulder. Feuilly, his face red like brick, yelled, “I’ve been sexually active for over ten years!” 

“Also,” said Grantaire, still recording the whole thing on his phone -he thought he might offer The Talk™ to Eponine for Gavroche- “It’s too late anyway. He’s already got me pregnant.”

Joly dropped the banana and condom he’d just produced. Jehan and Musichetta squealed. Feuilly stood up. The diorama fell to the floor and no one noticed. 

“R. You’re pregnant?” Feuilly asked. “It worked? I’m having a baby?”

Grantaire was tearing up. He figured it was hormones so he let them splat onto his cheeks as he nodded. Feuilly hugged him, and Grantaire found himself at the centre of a huge cuddle.

After an impromptu celebration of tea and a packet of Petit Écolier biscuits and JBM had gone home to terrorize each other for a while instead of the rest of Paris, Jehan said, “Come on, R, I’ll walk you home.”

Feuilly swept Grantaire into a hug, which Grantaire had to eventually fight his way out of. Then he went to wave to Jehan, only they stepped forward and pressed a kiss on his cheek. Feuilly wanted to kiss back, but had been shocked into stillness too long and Jehan stepped away just as Feuilly stepped forward, and it was a horrible, embarrassing dance of dorkiness and why would Feuilly try to shift his beautiful friendship with Jehan anyplace else?

Jehan was no longer looking at Feuilly. Feuilly had made it weird. All he could do was shrug at Grantaire; he had no idea what was going on either.

He shut the door after his friends and hid his face in a cushion for several minutes as if he could hide from his own awkwardness.

Outside, Jehan had their arm linked through Grantaire’s. “My beautiful, fellow African French person, you are pregnant. The les Amis are reproducing. We are no longer merely molding a new world, but we are making the next generation of citizens to people it. You have stunned me Grantaire. You have stunned me.” Jehan asked him, “How did this come about?

“I mean, at first we were just joking around, saying how great a dad Feuilly would be and how crap I would.” Jehan scoffed, but Grantaire ignored them to keep up with the story. “But it’s deeper than that, Jehan. Feuilly has a gap where his family should have been. He aches to fill it. I do not. I have… a sticky, smelly swamp of bad impressions about nuclear family and children and I wish to build something different from what I’ve known in life so far; different terrain, different materials and in a completely different part of the map.”

Jehan nodded, “Yeah, I understand that.”

“Somehow, the joking turned into a philosophical discussion and then into a half serious proposition. And one day I was watching him, and I’d just…” Grantaire huffs. “Enjolras had pointed out how little I contribute and my father had made another pointed remark about my art degree and I just been misgendered again and… I just thought, he deserves this, this thing I can do for him. So I went off the T…”

“I noticed your voice went up a bit,” Jehan confessed. “And you’ve been wearing baggier clothes.”

“Yeah, I hate my jaw, like this too,” Grantaire said, rubbing it. “My boobs will get huge when my tummy does, I’ll look like a hairy girl.” He looked absolutely terrified.

“You’re still willing to do it?”

“Yeah, it’s Feuilly, and it’s something I can do and Combeferre is always saying what you do makes you good or bad, so… yeah.”

Jehan stopped walking and hugged him. Grantaire concentrated on the warmth of Jehan’s thin arms on his back and on taking deep breaths to slow everything down.

They walked another block. 

“R?” said Jehan. They sounded hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“How did you do it? You don’t have to tell me but did you, did you sleep with him?”

Grantaire’s dark skin flushed darker.

“Oh, I guess that’s my answer really,” said Jehan, staring at Grantaire’s face. 

“We couldn’t work it for Feuilly’s insurance to cover FIV, since we aren’t married or together or whatever, or for my insurance to acknowledge I could get pregnant, since I fought so hard to be listed male in the first place. We talked about a turkey baster and Feuilly said I deserved an orgasm out of this at the very least, and we drank a bottle of cabernet and had sex. It didn’t work the first month and we didn’t need the wine by the next month and now,” Grantaire stumbled over his feet and his words. “Now there’s a baby.”

Jehan held him tighter, and they walked another block.

“R?”

“Yeah?”

“Is he good?”

“Jean Prouvaire! Have you been thinking about what Feuilly is like in bed?” Grantaire poked Jehan’s pink cheeks. “Have you been imagining our precious misiek naked, and touching you?”

“Yes,” breathed Jehan, “I have. R, don’t tell.”

“You should ask him out, petal,” said Grantaire, dropping his teasing tone.

Jehan screwed up their face. “You think?”

“Yes, Jehan, I really do,” said Grantaire. “Besides, he is really good.”

“Fuck,” said Jehan.

“Yeah,” said Grantaire.


	2. Chapter 2

**November:**

When Cosette was absorbed into their familial collective, she bullied Feuilly into a nice button-up, slicked his stiffly upright hair into a truly embarrassing part and made him line up with Gavroche to have a yearly portrait shot when the photographer came round to l’ecole. She framed it and hung it in the Musain. 

Feuilly lifted it from the wall and tucked it in his laptop bag. He had very little hope she wouldn’t just print another and replace it within the week, but it was worth a try. 

Cosette leaned over him a mere five minutes after her arrival. “Feuilly dear, did you take the photograph?”

“No,” Feuilly swore.

“Feuilly, Maman can tell when you are fibbing. I’m very disappointed.”

Feuilly swallowed. Cosette was a tiny Balinese lady that all les Amis were terrified of. She made a beckoning motion with her hand.

With a sigh, Feuilly returned the photo. Cosette kissed his forehead and told him, “I’m very proud of you for telling the truth. I love you Feuilly-bear. I made you chocolate-caramel slice.” She gave Feuilly a huge airtight container of decadent baking before re-hanging the dreaded portrait. 

Feuilly pulled the lid off the container and dug in. He offered it around. Grantaire took one look; the caramel seemed to ooze out and the back of his tongue tingled as if it could already taste the fat coating and choking… He stood up, his nose and forehead wrinkled, and rushed out to the bathrooms. 

There wasn’t much to come out. He had felt a low level nausea all day and had not felt like eating, but he heaved over the bowl while perched on one knee in a stall. 

After a while, his head cleared and he rinsed his mouth and splashed his face, before stumbling back to his usual seat for the meeting. Bossuet patted him. 

“Why does it not keep to the timetable it’s dratted name indicates? Morning sickness, yeah right. All damn day sickness is more accurate,” Grantaire grumbled. Enjolras walked past, without breaking his argument with Courfeyrac once, and placed a package of plain crackers, some sliced apple and a thermos on Grantaire’s table. Grantaire opened the thermos and soothing ginger & mint tea scent wafted out. Grantaire sighed and looked to Enjolras who smiled a bit and then continued to incise Courfeyrac’s points with surgical proficiency.

Grantaire was nibbling tentatively on a cracker when Feuilly came by to check on him. The grateful and guilty look on his face was hard to face. “Don’t look like that, misiek. It only lasts a few weeks apparently. And everytime I turn around Enjolras is feeding me on bland and consequently palatable food. Really, it’s a bit creepy, he randomly turned up in my studio time yesterday and in my kitchen cooking K-broth on Wednesday.”

Jehan joined them at the table, crossing their ridiculously trim legs and leaning forward onto their elbows. “Am I interrupting?” they asked.

“Never!” Grantaire declared, tossing his head dramatically. 

Feuilly laughed. “You are welcome, Prouvaire. I was merely feeling guilty for R’s nausea.”

“Aw,” Jehan said, “you say that as if R wasn’t perpetually nauseous from self-induced hangover until you started trying to make a baby.”

“That doesn’t help ease my guilt,” groaned Feuilly. “How are you doing with that, R?”

“It’s been okay,” Grantaire said, as if he was shocked himself. “Bossuet and Joly are helping me, Joly with all his doctor know-how and Bossuet with vudu and Musichetta texts me everyday with a new fact about fetal alcohol syndrome, so that’s… off putting.” 

The trio were a medical household: Joly was in his residency, Bossuet was a qualified herbalist and Musichetta was a midwife. They had promised Grantaire they wouldn’t let him traverse the pregnancy alone.

Jehan’s face had softened. “Well, I’m still impressed as hell, R.”

“And I’m your servant for life,” added Feuilly.

“Oh, stop,” begged Grantaire. “New subject. Please.”

“I have a question for you, Feuilly,” said Jehan, touching his hand. They had stars drawn onto their hands and wrists with black marker. It stood out starkly on Jehan’s tan skin. “Will you let me take you on a date?”

Feuilly’s mouth sagged open. “Really?” he gaped.

“Say yes,” Grantaire encouraged, smacking Feuilly on the arm. “Are you nuts? Jehan is the cutest person since Cosette. If they ask you out, you go out.”

Jehan looked smug. “To be fair, she’s the cutest thing since me, as I’m older than she is.”

“By three weeks, Prouvaire,” Cosette called, from across the room.

Jehan linked their hands over the purple bubble skirt they were wearing, and mouthed, “Older.” 

“Yes,” said Feuilly, still stunned. “Yes.”

Courfeyrac called from the front of the room, “We’re ready to start if everyone else is. Sorry, we’re over time, I was just having my arse handed to me by Enjolras.”

“Brother, there is no shame in it. You join a group of fabulous minds that have yet been left broken at the foot of Apollo, smashed against his shield of passion and brought down with the sword of his wit,” Grantaire declaimed.

“Stop pontificating, R,” said Enjolras, the left side of his mouth curving up. “We’re talking about the unlawful dismissal case reported this week. Ferre has the facts.”

Feuilly turned his attention to Combeferre, but it was hard not to notice Jehan out of the corner of his eye while he was supposed to be listening, becoming outraged and brainstorming. What on earth was Jehan thinking? Feuilly was thirty and starting his family, proudly hard working but fueled by revenge rather than hope. Jehan was a brilliant academic, and young, and blindingly original. Feuilly couldn’t possibly have said no to Jehan, even though he was sure it was a huge mistake.

Feuilly opened the door to Jehan later that week, his stomach frantic but his face a mask of calm. Jehan was wearing an olive green beanie which hid most of their hair and made his doe eyes seem even rounder. Feuilly swallowed, and wondered how long he could keep himself from touching. 

Jehan took him to a graveyard and handed him a sketchpad and a soft lead pencil. They waved his own notebook and pen at Feuilly and said, “You pick a gravestone, and I’ll time us, and I have to write their life story and you have to sketch what you think they looked like. Then I’ll pick one, and so on. Later, when we’re hungry, I’ve set us up a meal somewhere else. Ready?”

Feuilly laughed. Jehan could look so wicked and so innocent and never seemed to settle somewhere in between. Right now their eyes had the kind of twinkle that Bahorel had three hours before he was calling for bail. Feuilly nodded. 

Feuilly picked a gravestone and started to sketch. Jehan somehow created twisting backstories that were at once outrageous and heart rending. And write them in a way that seemed so solid and that had Feuilly wishing he’d had time to sit and talk with those people. Feuilly’s first picture had been uninspired, something like his old landlady in appropriate period dress. But after hearing Jehan’s first story, he let loose and the second sketch looked like Bahorel with a cyber peg leg and a pet ostrich. Jehan laughed and clutched the sketchpad, his tinkling giggles going straight to Feuilly’s head. They did ten different headstones and scenarios before Jehan said, “I need to eat. How about you, habibi?”

“Yes, let’s eat,” Feuilly agreed and helped Jehan pack up. 

A passing punk stared at Jehan’s clothes before spitting, “Gay as a bent pole.” Jehan stiffened and started to turn towards the threat, They were a kracken when called to defend their self or a friend. Nothing would seem amiss, clear skies and calm seas, then suddenly the foe is out of his depth and struggling in a tangle of tentacles. 

Before Jehan could do more than open their mouth, Feuilly’s infectious cackle weaved it’s way around the combatants. He gasped. “I am a Pole. I am bent. You are as gay as I am Jehan.” He wheezed again, his face bright. “And I am so gay, I’m from Uranus.”

Jehan’s face lit up with glee, “I am so gay, I shit rainbows.”

“I am so bent,” Feuilly declared, “it’s a struggle to walk upright.”

“I’m so queer,” Jehan countered, “Lady Gaga plays whenever I enter the room. Hey, where’d that guy go?”

“Did he not like our discourse?”

Jehan linked their arm through Feuilly’s. “Good riddance.”

“Jehan?” 

“Hmmm?”

“What’s habibi?”

“Oh, it’s like my darling, or sweetie, I guess,” said Jehan. “Do you mind?”

Feuilly shook his head. “It’s nice. Is it from Tunisia?”

Jehan smiled, a large and vulnerable smile. “It’s Arabic. All the Arabic speaking countries likely use it.”

“Do you miss speaking Arabic?”

“No, R and I talk in Arabic with each other all the time.”

“R speaks Arabic?”

“Yeah, it’s an official language of Djibouti.”

“How many languages does he speak?” Feuilly asked, stunned. “He knows enough Polish to tease me.”

“He knows Somali from his mother, French from his father, and Arabic from being educated in Djibouti. He signs some Somali sign and has some Greek from studying classics and also from an ethnic community back in Djibouti, some Latin from classics and honestly, I think he just picks up bits and pieces from any of the rest of you that speak other languages.”

“He’s amazing. How does he think he isn’t?” Feuilly said.

Jehan rolled their eyes. “That’s not a serious question, is it Feuilly? Even though you’re a white man, you can understand what it was like for R growing up half caste trans in Djibouti and then coming to France with his skin colour?”

“Yeah,” said Feuilly. “No, I know it was a stupid thing to say. I just, I think he’s amazing. I can’t understand people not seeing it.”

“Well, when R is low he doesn’t hear logic, he hears the voice of depression which, I can tell you, will do it’s best to convince a person they aren’t worth the oxygen they are breathing.”

Feuilly put his arm around Jehan’s shoulder and squeezed them. They were similar heights and Jehan gently tapped his forehead on Feuilly’s temple in thanks. 

“Merde!” Feuilly said suddenly. “Did R go off meds to be pregnant?”

“No.” Jehan sighed. “R doesn’t… I take meds. It’s my choice. I consider my mental illness to be something that requires managing and treating like any other medical condition. R is younger and he hasn’t quite escaped his family’s influence and, from what I gather, they disprove of almost everything about R’s life right now.”

“That’s shit,” said Feuilly.

“It is,” Jehan agreed.

“You are less than a year older than he is,” Feuilly couldn’t help pointing out. “Too young to be dating some old man like me.”

“Ah, but I am older than all of you somehow. I am a product of all history, a culmination of nature and blood as they have walked taller and taller at each age, the sum of our choices, the machine rather than a mere cog.”

“Alright, then. Should I continue to call you Jehan? Or do you prefer me to recognise your divinity publically?”

“Hush,” said Jehan, “We are all the same. It’s just that I remember we are more than this temporary bag of tissue more consistently than everyone else does.” 

Jehan took Feuilly back to their flat, where they had made an indoor picnic using all of their considerable cache pot plants, a blanket laid with food and fairy lights blanketing the ceiling. 

“Where are your flatmates?” Feuilly asked, watching Jehan set some music playing. 

“I live alone,” admitted Jehan. “You know how I get, all absorbed in things.” Feuilly nodded; he did know. Sometimes being the subject of Jehan’s intense focus could be stomach churning. “So, I learnt from trial and error, I need solo time, I need head space.”

“I guess, I’m going to have to look for a suitable flat without flatmates,” Feuilly said. He uncorked the wine and poured out. “I’ll need space for a nursery and, Christ, good school zones…?”

Jehan dished him some food. “It’s all vego, sorry omnivore,” they said, but they didn’t sound at all sorry.

Feuilly grinned. “I’ll live.” It was all fantastically tasty anyway. Jehan had a geisha-type presence when doing tasks, all love and attention had gone into this date. Feuilly watched them eat; slow and precise, long fingers twisting smoothly around the fork graceful as a dance movement. “Jehan?” Feuilly asked after a while. “Why did you ask me out?”

Jehan smiled, put their fork down and turned their huge eyes on him. Feuilly was dragged in, a helpless current under the moon. 

“I’ve always admired you,” confessed Jehan, “but lately I can’t stop wondering what you look like under your clothes and if your hands would be as sure on me as they are when making your furniture.” Feuilly choked a little. Jehan smirked, “It seemed like a good idea to talk some more and see if we liked being more… intimate.” They almost whispered the last word. 

“I’m pretty sure the answer is yes, on every level,” said Feuilly.


	3. Chapter 3

**December:**

Feuilly stood, impatiently fiddling, on a kitchen chair while Musichetta pinned a sundress on him.

“Why me?” griped Feuilly for the nth time.

“Big sister rights,” Musichetta mumbled around a mouthful of pins.

“And what are my privileges as a little brother?” asked Feuilly, genuinely curious.

“You can borrow my car...”

“You don’t have one.”

“...my make-up?”

Feuilly grunted. “Pass.”

“I can dress you for special occasions.”

Feuilly’s eyebrow shot up. “Tonight?” he asked.

“Absolutely. What’s special about tonight, misiek?”

“The poetry reading,” said Feuilly, and softer, “Jehan.”

“Oh,” said Musichetta. It was half delight and half surprise. “Yes. We can do something irresistible.”

After a while she said, “I’m done using you as a manikin. Now I can dress you like my pretty white-boy doll.”

Feuilly, who hadn’t been to church since he was 15 years old, almost crossed himself. 

Musichetta dragged Feuilly back to his flat and tore through his closet with the fervour and efficiency of a tornado at level 4 on the Fujita scale. “Trust me?” she teased.

“I guess?”

She chuckled. It did not soothe Feuilly in the slightest. “Anything else you need to leave straight from ours? Want to shower here?” Musichetta said, while tossing clothes into a tote.

Feuilly raced through a wash, while Musichetta started an argument with one of his flatmates, and tidied his beard as much as possible without a full trim. Feuilly was proud of his beard, although it was a little ginger, it was a really good shape and he kept it full but close cut. Given his brown hair and eyes, he’d assumed he’d grow dark, lank facial hair, but it had grown in wiry and richly coloured. 

Musichetta bought him a smoothie on the way back to her place. “More little brother perks,” she explained.

“You do realise we are the same age, Chetta,” said Feuilly. “In fact, I am probably older.”

Musichetta waved her hand to swat away Feuilly’s point. “You’ll never prove it without knowing your birthday. Besides, I’m the youngest of five, Feuilly-bear. I want to be the oldest for once. Please.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Feuilly. Musichetta had big brown puppy eyes, and could do beseeching at a standard that rivalled Jehan. It was pretty hard to say no to. She used this talent repeatedly over the next hour until Feuilly was turned out to her satisfaction in a dark green henley and stiff, pleated skirt that faded from a rust-coloured waist to a lemon hem. She’d kept him from freezing in black woollen leggings and his steel cap boots, and allowing him his green duck-down jacket for the trip from house to venue.

Feuilly had stopped asking, “Seriously?” after only two instances of Musichetta-pleading-face ™. 

It was all worth it for the gorgeous light on Jehan’s face when they spotted Feuilly at the cafe where Jehan and some others were performing. Musichetta sing-songed, “Told You,” and peeled off with Bossuet to cuddle on a bean bag. 

Jehan drifted over, leaving Courfeyrac mid sentence. “You look amazing,” said Jehan, their voice was breathy, like when they were talking about De Vigny, and their hand plucked compulsively at Feuilly’s skirt.

“So I should take Musichetta’s fashion advice more often?”

“Oh,” said Jehan, in faux coy tones, “Are you dressed differently tonight?” Their fingers were tracing the ribbing of Feuilly’s henley lightly, right over where Feuilly’s heartbeat was rabbiting.

“Good luck,” said Feuilly. He couldn’t make his face stop smiling.

“Thanks,” said Jehan, smiling back and swaying closer.

“Oh gross, is this going to be a thing?” moaned Bahorel, right behind Feuilly. “As if we needed more heart-eyes and sugar shock in this group. The ratio of punk to pathetic is taking a turn for the lame.” Then he picked up Feuilly yelling, “If you’re going to be trashy, you belong with the rest of the rubbish, little bro!”

He’d almost reached the bin behind the bar when Musichetta’s voice trilled, “Get garbage smell on that skirt and you’ll regret it.”

Bahorel put Feuilly down and straightened the skirt.

“Hey Gingy!” Bahorel greeted, tugging Feuilly’s beard. 

“It’s barely red,” Combeferre interjected, automatically leaping in to diffuse the situation with kindergarten teacher proficiency. 

“And this is France and not Poland in the middle ages,” said Grantaire. Sometimes it was as if Grantaire spilled information rather than spoke it, as if there was just so many facts and ideas inside him he leaked tidbits, or exploded onto canvas. “We do not burn Feuilly at the stake, nor revere him like a lucky talisman, “ he lectured.

“Brothers tease each other,” Bahorel protested. “It is documented.”

When les Amis began to claim their roles in Feuilly’s unasked for fantasy-family, both Enjolras and Bahorel had wanted to be brothers. Rather, Bahorel wanted to be a brother; Enjolras wanted to have one.

Feuilly had actually been excited about this, only it had rapidly deteriorated into Bahorel trying to get Feuilly and Enjolras drunk and play-fighting with them until someone, usually Cosette or Grantaire, rescued them.

Foiled in his attempt to beat up on Feuilly, Bahorel assented to Plan B and bought a round of drinks for his ‘brothers’. Feuilly tapped his bottle against Bahorel’s and took a swig. Enjolras, however, when handed his, whispered behind his hand into Bahorel’s ear and Bahorel stitched his seldom-used serious face on and nodded solemnly, taking the bottle back and placing it next to his own. 

Enjolras clapped Bahorel on the back, before catching Combeferre’s attention, and the two best friends crossed the cafe space and flanked a very twitchy and flustered Grantaire, as Jehan took the stage.

For all Jehan’s romanticism, they were a fierce poet. Years of standing up to bullies with only their words had sharpened their tongue into a terrible weapon. But they were still a poet, and their words might be a sword, but that sword was finely crafted; elegant and proudly offset with gems. Jehan cut his audience down but it was glorious. People came back, over and over again, to be taught a lesson at the point of that lovingly wielded sword.

Feuilly watched Jehan speak, confused how a common sparrow like himself had attracted a phoenix like Jehan. 

Grantaire was fidgeting. He kept sighing and eyeing the bar. 

When Jehan finished his first piece, Combeferre said, under the applause, “I’m going to get a lime and soda. Anyone want one?”

“Sure,” said Enjolras, “and something to snack on?”

“Yes please,” said Grantaire, without raising his head.

“R?” asked Enjolras, once Combeferre was out of earshot. “Can I hold your hand?”

“Want to make sure there isn’t any alcohol in it?” said Grantaire, with bile.

“If you would like me to help in that way, then sure, but also, I just want to.” If Grantaire was not an accomplished observer of Enjolras, he would say Enjolras looked stoic and polished. But, Grantaire knew Enjolras’ tells, and one heel was slightly lifting off the floor before spasming back down, and Enjolras’ shoulders were immaculately straight. Grantaire could picture the stance Enjolras’ took when relaxed, weight on one hip and the jiggling heel still and minutely turned in. This was Enjolras carefully controlled.

Grantaire shrugged. “I do want the help.” He wasn’t happy about it so Enjolras took his hand quickly, before he could be brushed off. Grantaire stared at the odd sight of his rough square hand folded with Enjolras’ elegant, pale one, and he could not seem to stop talking. “It’s like, who cared if I was fucking myself over? But this tiny human didn’t ask for this so the least I can do is not fuck them over before they’ve even got out of me.” Grantaire laughed, high pitched and desperate. “This is not right. This was a mistake, right? Who would entrust me with their child?”

“Feuilly would. Feuilly does,” Enjolras said. “Frankly, R, it doesn’t matter who would, that I would, if I ever wanted to parent. None of that matters right now.” Enjolras tipped his head, invading Grantaire’s line of sight. “R,” said Enjolras. His voice was soft like Grantaire had never heard. “You’re growing a baby.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hand and sighed at the terror in Grantaire’s unfocused eyes. “You should know, we all stand for that child. If the least of us is to finish the race…”

“You’re going to help me,” Grantaire said, blinking as he grasped the knowledge.

“Yes,” confirmed Enjolras. He wished Grantaire had heard the other things he was trying to say, but this was a start, and the pregnant man’s gaze was fixed on him, had stopped flicking towards the bar.

Onstage Jehan began a second piece. It was not satirical, or a call to arms. Instead, it was like a massage, the words applying pressure at just the right points to break old ideas, the effect a little sharp at first. Slowly, the words felt good, Jehan’s audience starting to long for them instead of flinching. They relaxed incrementally as Jehan spiraled them down on a air current of imagery. By the end of the poem, Jehan had evinced a new way of seeing things and their audience hadn’t seen it coming.

Suddenly, Grantaire started to laugh. Enjolras was gratified by Grantaire’s abrubt change of mood but glanced at Jehan to see if they were offended. But Jehan merely beamed proudly, like a teacher when their student passes a test. 

Feuilly gasped.

“Grantaire, what?” Enjolras whispered.

“It’s a love poem,” Grantaire told Enj and Ferre, under his breath. “About Feuilly.” 

Jehan spoke the end of the piece, having provoked the intended emotions out of the crowd. They waited through some applause and said, “Thank you,” before stepping off the shallow platform. They were scrunching the fabric of their cardigan and high off expressing their intimate self so authentically. Some of the crowd were pressing forward to shake hands or pat Jehan’s back, but Jehan pressed forward to reach Feuilly and kiss him with his arms linked gracefully behind Feuilly’s neck. Feuilly kissed back and Jehan was delighted, inflating and drifting and fucking triumphant.

“Mmm, that was an exquisite first kiss,” Jehan hummed.

“God, yes,” said Feuilly. “I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

“Maybe you don’t deserve it,” Jehan said, wickedly, “but I definitely do.”

Feuilly laughed and thought Jehan deserved a second kiss also. He gripped Jehan’s hips, ostensibly to pull them closer, but really if he let go he’d probably be on the floor, dizzy from the speed at which kissing Jehan had become a thing that happened.

“How did you know it was about Feuilly?” Combeferre asked Grantaire.

“Well, there were a few phrases that clued me in, along with the fact that I heard Jehan ask Feuilly out, but mainly I found myself pondering how great Feuilly is, then wondered why I was thinking that, then it clicked. Jehan was suggesting it.”

“Still, that was very quick of you, Grantaire,” said Combeferre.

“The ‘sheltered cove’ metaphor was the lightbulb moment,” said Grantaire. “That’s exactly what it’s like to be held by Feuilly.”

Enjolras’ grip on his hand tightened, and he said stiffly, “You know this… what that’s like…?” 

“Yes,” said Grantaire, trying to subtly pull his hand away. “That’s how we made a baby.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras. He stopped crushing Grantaire’s hand but he tugged it closer to him.

“You know,” said Combeferre, “I hear Joly is the person to talk to if you need to know where babies come from, Enjolras.”

“Shut up,” said Enjolras.

“Actually, I have it on my phone,” Grantaire offered, swiping it open and pulling up the video. 

Enjolras and Combeferre watched silently for a while and then Combeferre said, “That is an amazing diorama.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for FLUFF!

New Year:

Joly insisted everyone come over for New Year. The three level house he shared with Bossuet, Musichetta and Grantaire was the biggest accommodation any of the Amis resided in but only because Bossuet and Musichetta ran their businesses from home. They had their midwifery office and naturopath clinic on the ground level with the kitchen, they had a living room and their bedroom upstairs, and Grantaire occupied a dim basement space.

Musichetta and Bossuet had locked up their professional areas for the party but the rest of the house was open and decorated with fake fireworks. Grantaire had taped huge newsprint sheets on the walls and painted fireworks. Bossuet had made explosive shapes out of coloured cellophane and strung them from the ceiling. Joly had been cooking all day and Musichetta had set up a drinks table.

“Keep Courf and Bahorel away from the playlist,” Musichetta ordered when she saw Courfeyrac edging towards the laptop hooked up to the sound system.

“Rude,” said Courfeyrac, and smoothly changed direction to climb the stairs. Once in the lounge area, he hauled Grantaire off a chair and claimed, loudly, “No one puts Grantaire in the corner.” 

“But I’m. Having. The Time of my Life,” Grantaire sang, but he went to dance with Courfeyrac anyway. Even with his tiny belly bump and his new centre of balance, he was still the most graceful dancer in the Amis. Courfeyrac was mainly flailing limbs and unhinged enthusiasm. They were dancing next to Bahorel whose dance moves mimicked a bout of boxing crossed with the can-can, and Jehan who was delightful to watch but whose rhythm was in no way inspired by the tunes coming from the speakers. 

Feuilly was drinking a beer and chatting with Bossuet, until Joly’s voice came panicked up the stairs, and Bossuet shrugged at Feuilly and disappeared. Feuilly took several gulps from his bottle. Without Bossuet there was nothing to distract him from Jehan writhing around, close enough Feuilly could hear them humming.

Feuilly was not sure how he was supposed to deal with this gorgeous person with their sinuous limbs and that damn jawline. Especially now they had just bent over to caress their own shins in the middle of the room and the waist of their leggings slipped down to reveal white cotton panties with violets printed on them. Courfeyrac had seen too because he was mouthing “Oh my god,” at Feuilly, before performing a series of charade-type gestures Feuilly was ashamed to be able to translate to, ‘You gonna hit that?’

He mouthed back, ‘Yes, fuck off.’

Courfeyrac grinned, completely unperturbed. Half his face was smile. Feuilly would never understand how the man barrelled through life without getting snagged on anything or anyone, how Courfeyrac lived in an enviable ebb and flow of abundance. Feuilly, in comparison, worked hard for his precious few things and then fought hard to keep them. 

A song Feuilly knew came on and he did a little white-man shuffle by the wall, hoping no one was really looking at him, and drank from his beer every time someone did look his way.

By midnight, Feuilly was officially drunk. It was official, Courfeyrac had handed out cardboard medals. Feuilly’s said, Drinking on behalf of R. Joly’s said, Shit faceD. Bahorel’s said, Boot and rally! Enjolras was proudly waving one that said, Drinking from the skulls of the privileged. Courfeyrac and Bahorel stood on the couch and began to countdown, and there was a tangle of hugging, kissing and three different New Year’s songs being shouted. Jehan gave Feuilly the sweetest kiss. Enjolras and Grantaire suffered through The Most Awkward Hug Ever. It was awkward to hug Grantaire around his wee belly anyway but he tried to pull away and Enjolras kept clinging, but was pulling away when Grantaire was leaning back in. It was so distressing, they were rescued by Marius, who clumsily pushed up behind Grantaire and yelled at Enjolras to, “Quick! Make R the filling in our disinherited-son sandwich.” 

Enjolras seemed to forget there was one and a bit humans in between him and Marius and he told Marius, “Everybody is needed for the revolution. You might be the equivalent of Comic Sans amongst the Amis but comics would look stupid if the type was Times New Roman.”

“Dance R, dance!” sung Musichetta. She grabbed Grantaire’s arm and extracted him from his earnest white-boy prison. Her voice was amazingly steady for how fast her hips were shimmying. 

Grantaire groaned. “My feet hurt. I’ve got an extra 5kg to lug round.”

“I’ll lend you Bossuet,” slurred Joly. “His foot rubs are the most addictive, addictive…” He lost his thread and wandered towards Musichetta’s swaying skirt.

Bossuet showed no sign of being upset to be lent out like illicitly copied porn. He urged Grantaire onto the sofa and folded himself onto the floor at Grantaire’s feet, taking one trainer on his cross-legged lap before starting to untie the laces. 

“Oh that’s spectacular,” Grantaire said with a purr, when Bossuet began to stretch and press his feet in their socks. Enjolras quietly sunk down next to Bossuet and set to work on Grantaire’s neglected foot.

Musichetta observed Jehan and Feuilly with their heads bent together, Grantaire and his massage slaves, Courfeyrac in full lecture mode with Eponine, and Bahorel sprawled on the couch with Gavroche listening to him intently. She hummed. “Okay, let’s have a fresh round of drinks and declare our New Year’s resolutions, yeah?” She collared Cosette and Combeferre to help her, as they were decidedly not-as-drunk as everyone else, and she wasn’t disturbing sober Grantaire for anything. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in months, melting into the sofa, his face soft and satiated.

“I’ll start,” she said, once she was back upstairs and everyone had their glass topped up. “I want to have guidelines for home-births approved by HAS, so women have the option to give birth at home with their midwives and still be covered with their health insurance companies.”

“Women and Grantaire,” Enjolras pointed out.

“I mean, no offence Chetta,” Grantaire said, “but I want to give birth where the drugs are. We’ll go to the hospital and you and Dr Myriel can yank Feuilly’s kid out.”

“Your choice, R, but giving the person giving birth the choice, is the heart of my intention,” Musichetta said. Then she smirked and added, “And I want a holiday in Majorca.”

“Ooooh,” Bahorel cut in. “I want a holiday in Majorca. Yeah, that’s my resolution.”

Musichetta looked to her left, “Joly love, your turn.”

“I want the Government to increase the number of non-national enrolments into medicine,” said Joly. “And I want a holiday in Majorca.”

Courfeyrac, on Joly’s left, said, “I want to fall in love.” Most of the room rolled their eyes. Courfeyrac probably would fall in love this year. And he’d likely fall out of love within the twelve month too.

“Nope, that’s my resolution,” said Bahorel. “Gonna fall in love.” He nodded his head, cementing his deal with fate. 

Jehan chewed their thumb then said, “I want to boost my online following for my poetry to 5000 people.”

Feuilly recited, in his steady timbre, “I want to find a really good manager for the business so I can simply design furniture and concentrate on the baby.”

“Aww,” said Marius. He and Courfeyrac exchanged smirks, clapping each other on the back, making Feuilly roll his eyes at their theatrical depiction of proud uncles. 

At Combeferre’s turn, he gave his friends a sheepish smile, “I’ve been wanting to for a while, but this year I’m really determined to do a bungee jump.”

Bahorel made some high pitched strangled sounds, which the others assumed meant, ‘I want to do a bungee jump.’

Enjolras started to list issues in public policy he was hoping to effect this year, but Courfeyrac interrupted and banned him from talking activism. “What’s your personal ambition this year Enjolras? A desire, a dream. Come on, we know you’re not actually David 8. We’ve seen you bleed.”

“Come back to me? What about you, R?”

“We will come back to you, Apollo,” Grantaire promised. “Ah, I plan to push a baby out of my body while also pulling off a final exhibition, and in the second half of the year get a job so I can save up to get top surgery.”

“Woah, R. That’s impressive,” said Combeferre.

“Yeah,” said Eponine, “your resolutions are usually ‘get so drunk I wake up in Lyon’ or whatever.”

“Or ‘piss off one of my advisors to the point they threaten to quit’ or something like that,” Joly chipped in.

“Which is why my current resolutions are not really impressive,” protested Grantaire. “I have to do all those things anyway. It was never necessary to get so drunk I woke up in Lyon. That was pure ambition. The pursuit of excellence, if you will.”

“We will not,” Enjolras mumbled.

“Party pooper,” Grantaire responded, grinning.

“Mine’s easy,” said Bossuet. “No broken bones all year and a holiday to Majorca. Gav?”

“I’m gonna clock the shit out of that damn pinball machine at the Corinthe,” said Gavroche, who was trying very hard not to look too tired in case Eponine decided to take him home.

“Okay, I’m gonna do that too,” said Bahorel, pointing at Gavroche. “You’re on, little dude.”

“I might audition for the school play this year too,” Gavroche added, softly.

The Amis had known Gavroche since he was a preschooler. None of them dared let him see how excited they were about this tentative announcement, wrestling their faces into mild interest. Bahorel gave him a lazy fist bump, while everyone else did their best to stay casual and pretend they were unmoved.

“I have everything I need,” said Cosette, deliberating taking the attention off Gavroche. “I resolve to do something to improve each of your situations this year.”

“You are a Holiday angel, Cosette,” said Bahorel. “A lark to herald in the best in the world. No, a good fairy. I’ll get you a crown and a wand and wings, fairy queen.”

“You’re already plotting your own matching outfit, aren’t you?” said Eponine, wryly.

“Gotta get good wear out of my tutu,” Bahorel said defensively. It was a violent peacock blue and Bahorel loved it very much. Cosette tended to buy him matching things at birthdays, like nail polish or boot laces or buttons for his overcoat, in the same bright colour. 

Marius nudged Eponine. “Your turn,” he said.

“I want to take Gavroche on a vacation, nowhere flash, just somewhere.” She sighed a little. “To do that I’ll need a promotion.”

“Ponine,” said Feuilly, sitting up so fast Jehan was shoved onto Courfeyrac. Feuilly paused for a few seconds to heft Jehan onto his lap, while Courfeyrac laughed loudly and Jehan stared at each of them confused. “Would managing my sales and commissions and admin be a promotion? You’d have to run the online sales, the payroll program and the taxes, pay bills and cover the shop clerk on Mondays.”

“Depends on how much you can afford to pay me, but probably,” said Eponine. Her eyes were round.

“We’re going to talk Thénardier,” said Feuilly, waggling a finger back and forth between them. They were both smiling.

“Marius?” prompted Musichetta.

He was bright red. “This year I’m going to convince my Grandfather to change his business policy and his voting allegiance. And I’m going to learn a new language.”

Bossuet made a choked off noise, but it was drowned out in the clamour as Cosette, Courfeyrac, Eponine, Joly and Bahorel all crowded around Marius for a group hug. He made the same resolution every year and every year he learned a new language but failed to impact his family at all. It ate at him a little more every year but didn’t stop him from making the same promise to himself over and over. This was the Marius les Amis saw and nobody else did.

“Don’t forget Enjolras,” Combeferre said. 

The knot of cuddlers in the middle of the room didn’t disperse but they did turn their heads, as one, towards Enjolras.

“This year, I will get a tattoo,” said Enjolras.

Cosette shoved her palm in Bahorel face. “Shut up,” she said. “Don’t say it. We know, okay, we know you want a tattoo too.”

To Gavroche’s dismay, Eponine insisted it was home time after that so Cosette drove the first carload home. Combeferre went too because he was working a New Year’s Day morning shift and needed to sleep.

Courfeyrac and Marius persuaded Bahorel, Musichetta and Joly off to the bars. Grantaire watched them go with more than a little wistfulness, but Bossuet brought pillows and blankets out to the lounge and Jehan snuck snacks upstairs from the kitchen and the remaining friends made a bundle of themselves. Jehan got lost in their own head, flicking one of the blankets up and down to make a wave motion and calling out adjectives and metaphors. Bossuet spread peanut butter on slices of apple, glaring at Feuilly when he looked at him askance. Enjolras soon dissolved into tired giggling, prompted by Bossuet and Grantaire’s increasingly awful puns about peanut butter. They finally stopped when he tried to crawl away from them to escape but was too tangled up in a blanket and just collapsed in a hiccoughing heap. 

Around 1am, Cosette came back, and she got stuck with Bossuet in the kitchen, drinking tea and matching political philosophies to the alien civilizations in Star Trek. 

Grantaire jerked his head toward where Jehan and Feuilly were whispering, “I want to go down to my room but I don’t want to leave you third-wheeling. Do you want to come and hang out for a bit? I can stay awake, just want to rest. Growing the baby is hard work.”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you. But if you want to sleep, you should. I can get Cosette to take me home or something.”

Enjolras followed Grantaire down to the basement and had a good look around while Grantaire changed into pyjama pants and a sweatshirt. Grantaire’s room was huge, and he had made no attempt to provide divisions. The windowless wall was floor to ceiling industrial shelving and housed paints, canvasses, clothes, books and photos of Djibouti. An unframed bed was under the high windows that lead out to the street. 

“Don’t you need light to paint?” asked Enjolras, when Grantaire came up behind him. It was harder not to see how round his belly was without big coats or baggy hoodies to skew the view. “I’m sure I heard that somewhere.”

“Well, look at this,” said Grantaire sweeping some curtains aside dramatically to display small porte-fenêtres leading to the house’s tiny courtyard. “I get decent light through these in the afternoon.” There was no light presently, just pressing dark and an opportunistic draft. Grantaire closed the curtains again, and pinned them with a clothes peg.

“Here,” said Grantaire, handing Enjolras a blanket. “Climb up here.” He was settling himself under his own bedcovers, propped against the wall by his pillows. “Okay.” he said, fiddling with his phone. “I’ve set the stop-watch. Let’s see how long we can talk without arguing.”

Enjolras laughed. Then he picked at the comforter. “Maybe we could talk about you helping me design a tattoo?”

Grantaire beamed. “Yeah. Yeah man. I’d love that.”

 

“I won a scholarship,” Jehan was saying, upstairs. They were reclined on the sofa, with Feuilly tipped back against Jehan’s chest. Jehan’s hand was draped over Feuilly’s breast where his heart was leaping out to meet it. “My parents were offensively proud of me when I started at higher secondary school, I’d had one of the highest brevet de l'enseignment fondamental scores in the country, but by 16 I was starting to “act out” and they weren’t so happy with me anymore. Of course, the acting out was actually my first manic and depressive episodes but I didn’t know that yet. I moved to La Soukra to live with my aunt in order to finish school. My parents think she caused some miracle to get me to settle down but really… I just met the people who gave me the language to explain what I was dealing with.”

“Your Aunt?”

“No, she had a son at University there and I met all my his friends and I first heard the terms non-binary gender & bi-polar, and my cousin let me get books out of the University library on his card and use his laptop.”

“He sounds cool.”

“He is. I email my cousin sometimes, but the rest of them… I got my parent’s help to get the scholarship and passport and get here. And then I broke contact. They don’t believe in bi-polar, they don’t believe in bi-gender or bi-sexual. And I am all those things, so they don’t believe in me.”

When Marius talked about his family he looked lost and hurt. When Enjolras did, he looked furious; he had a way of straightening up and shifting one shoulder that, to Feuilly, seemed like he was drawing a metaphorical sword.

Jehan though, Jehan looked placid and blank, like they were discussing the train timetable, and for someone who was so enthusiastic usually that being the subject of their focus could make Feuilly shuffle his feet, it was frightening. Feuilly’s gut was raw with it, and only eased when Jehan smiled and said, “Then I met Courf, who believes in everyone. And when I met R, who is so similar to me in so many ways. That sense of belonging. I’d never felt anything like it. I guess it’s what you’re chasing by having a baby, habibi?” 

Feuilly privately thought that if he still didn’t feel like he belonged surrounded by people as great as his friends, it was not a feeling he was meant to have. But he said, “Maybe.”

“How did you get to France, Feuilly?”

“In Poland, compulsory education stops before high school and I aged out of the orphanage. There was no one to pay for me to stay in school so I did odd jobs until I had some money and then I hitched to Warsaw and found an apprenticeship with a cabinet maker. Eventually he set me up with his cousin to work with him here in Paris.”

“That was generous.”

“It really wasn’t. It was because I was qualified to be paid more than he could afford and he needed to take another apprentice rather than keep paying me at a higher rate.”

“So Feuilly, we are both here now.” Jehan’s voice had dropped into a rumble. Their finger was making lines between Feuilly’s belly-button and his sternum. “I’ve discovered where I belong and you’ve become a successful businessperson with a bizarre family. What now?”

“Now we discover how we fit together?” Feuilly could die from being so dorky. He couldn’t pull such a corny statement off. He wasn’t charming Courfeyrac or convincing Cosette or engaging Enjolras.

But Jehan embraced it. They laughed. “Oooh Feuilly. I’ve got some ideas of things I’d like to fit places.”

Jehan’s other hand put their glass onto a side table with a clunk and then began to dig scalloped shapes into the muscle of Feuilly’s thigh through his jeans. Their nose made sweet snail trails around Feuilly’s ear. It made Feuilly’s breath come fast and spare. 

The hand Jehan had been using to tickle between Feuilly’s ribs, moved to strum over Feuilly’s nipple like it was harp strings, and fuck it felt like the fingertips were stirring through Feuilly’s nerve endings, like he was being played. He made an embarrassing noise that would haunt him for ever, it sounded like there was a distressed moose in the room. Jehan tried to prod him into turning over, but Feuilly covered his red face. 

Jehan climbed on top of him, prodding him backwards until he was laid out on the couch. Jehan moved like every one of their cells were connected. One part couldn’t so much as twitch without a response from another. 

Jehan kissed him. It was deep and slow and the moment stretched out like lycra, pulled out long to accommodate them and sucked in dense to press them together. 

“Get some, son!” Bossuet called from the doorway. “That’s my boy,” he told Cosette, nodding.

“Feuilly dear,” Cosette contributed, “I trust you to respect your young partner’s boundaries and bodily autonomy. And to bring them over for karedok soon.”

“Um,” said Feuilly. Jehan started to slither off him, but Feuilly grabbed his hips to stop him because Cosette and Bossuet might not be his real mum and dad, but they didn’t deserve to see the tension currently being wrought on his fly. 

Bossuet threw his arm around Cosette and sighed, “Our little misiek is growing up, dear.”

“Where are Enj and R?” Cosette wondered.

They all stared at each other, and Bossuet grinned. “Let’s go check, shall we?” he suggested, giggling a little maniacally.

They clattered down the stairs, not trying to be discrete, and Bossuet tried Grantaire’s door handle to check if it was locked, gasping in faux shock when it turned. 

Grantaire was asleep, his blankets draped heavy over his swelling tummy. He had one hand curved over his belly and one up by his mouth like he always did if he ever smiled larger than his usual crooked smirk. Enjolras was also asleep, under a spare blanket and curled over Grantaire’s feet guard-puppy style. 

Bossuet took nine photos on his phone before Cosette woke Enjolras up to take the rest of them home.

**Author's Note:**

> misiek = teddy bear


End file.
